^ 


STACK 
ANNEX 


060 
006 


.  •   ...-• 


LITTLE  BGDK 
SERIES 


att*tW' ' 


A  Little  Volume, 


—  CRASHAW 


3 


Tfie 

BOOK 
SPORTS 

Compiled  and  Edited 
with  an  Introduction  by 
Wallace  and  Ranees  Rice 


Publishers 
THE  REILLY  &>  BRITTDM  CO. 

Chicago 


<?    AIL  rights  reserved^ 

\  e; 


Introduction 

THE  poetry  of  sport  is  modern  —  emphatically  so. 
Practiced  for  little  more  than  a  century  in  Eng- 
land and  Scotland,  it  has  arisen  in  America 
within  the  memory  of  many  still  living.  Until  a  gen- 
eration ago  we  were  too  busy  wresting  a  living  from 
virgin  soil  to  find  the  time  to  play,  much  less  to  write 
about  it  in  either  prose  or  verse.  To-day  we  are  begin- 
ning to  notice  the  value  of  games  in  the  open  —  and 
the  sheaf  of  songs  and  lyrics  which  follow  show  the 
result. 

Yet  even  now  the  spirit  of  humor  which  is  so  marked 
a  national  characteristic  with  us  has  prevailed,  and  our 
national  game  of  baseball  has  found  almost  none  who 
can  set  down  in  rhyme  the  varied  feelings  that  it  in- 
variably arouses  in  its  devotees.  The  one  familiar 
poem  is  the  memorable  "Casey  at  the  Bat,"  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  it  has  not  been  equaled  by  us 
for  hearty  humor  admirably  expressed.  The  time  is 
coming,  it  may  be  safely  predicted,  when  the  lover 
of  noble  poetry  will  have  his  wishes  gratified  to  the 
full  in  regard  to  baseball,  no  less  than  the  other  in- 
ventions of  man  for  enjoyment  in  the  open. 

Meanwhile,  the  verses  which  follow  do  contain 
much  of  delight,  much  of  the  hearty  spirit  of  good 
sportsmanship  which  has  done  so  much  to  make  the 
English-speaking  peoples  what  they  are. 

WALLACE  EICE. 


M 


156388 


Index  of  Sports 


24, 
10,  13.  37,  45,  50, 


Archery    . 

Baseball    . 

Basket  Ball 

Bicycling 

Boating    . 

Broad  Jumping 

Cricket 

Curling 

Fishing 

Football    . 

Golf 

Hammer  Throwing 

Handball 

High  Jumping 

Hockey     . 

Horse  Eacing    . 

Hurling     . 

Jumping 

Lawn  Tennis     . 

Mountaineering 

Pole  Vaulting 

Rowing     . 

Running    . 

Sailing 

Shooting 

Skating     .      '  . 

Sprinting 

Swimming 

Tennis 

Walking 

Wrestling 

Yachting 


.     13,  40, 

.   9,  13,  23,  36, 

14,  19,  21,  36,  49,  54,  58, 


.      14,  18 
13,   19,  30,  36,  37 


Index  of  Authors 


Adams,  Franklin  P. 
Ainger,  A.  C.    . 
Ashe,  Thomas 
Bannister,  Christopher 
Bayley,  Thomas  Haynes  . 
Bell,  John  Joy 
Browning,  Robert 
Campbell,  Isabella    . 
Chalkhill,   John 
Dana,  Richard  Henry 
De  Koven,  Ethel  le  Roy  . 
Egerton-Warburton,  R.  E. 
Fiske,  Horace  Spencer 
Hardy,   Thomas 
Holden,  John  Jarvis 
Housman,  Alfred  Edward 
Hovey,  Richard 
Keene,  Francis  Bowler 
Kernahan,  Coulson    . 
Kiser,  Samuel  Ellsworth     . 
Knowles,  Frederic  Lawrence 
Lamb,  Louis  Albert 
Lang,  Andrew 
Lindsey,  William 
Lytton,  Edward  Lord 
Macleod,  Norman 
Macurda,  Arthur  Amsden 
Marble      .... 
McGaffey,  Ernest 
Matheson,   Greville  E. 
Noel,  Roden     . 
Pier,  Arthur  Stanwood 


Rice,  Wallace 
Rolleston,  Thomas  William 
Russell,  Charles  E.    . 
Stephens,  Sennett     . 
Scollard,  Clinton 
Thayer,  Ernest  Lawrence 
Thomson,  James 
Whitman,  Walt 


LITTLE 
BOOK  OF 
SPORTS 


Ah,  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  Heaven, 
When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go  amiss? 

How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given! 
Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss, 
And  exercise,  of  health.    In  proof  of  this, 

Behold  the  wretch,  who  slugs  his  life  away, 
Soon  swallowed  in  disease's  sad  abyss; 

While  he  whom  toil  has  braced,  or  manly  play, 

Has  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought  as  clear  as 
day. 

Oh,  who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joys  of  health! 

Unclogged  the  body,  unobscured  the  mind: 
The  morning  rises  gay,  with  pleasing  stealth, 

The  temperature  evening  falls  serene  and  kind. 

In  health  the  wiser  brutes  true  gladness  find: 
See,  how  the  younglings  frisk  along  the  meads, 
As  May  comes  on,  their  joy  all  joy  exceeds! 
Yet  what  but  high-strung  health  this  dancing  pleas- 
aunce  breeds?  » 

—  James  Thomson. 


The 
Little  Book  of  Sports 


The  Athlete 


Better  than  Fame,  is  still  the  wish  for  Fame, 
The  constant  training  for  a  glorious  strife; 

The  Athlete,  nurtured  for  the  Olympian  game, 
Gains  strength  at  least  for  life. 

—  Edward  Lord  Lytton 


0  cubic  foot  of  healthful  sport! 

A  judgment  cool,  a  courage  high, 
And  brawn  —  the  old  Olympic  sort  — 

Control  thy  zigzag  through  the  sky. 

—  Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles. 


The  Runner 

On  a  flat  road  runs  the  well-trained  runner, 

He  is  lean  and  sinewy  with  muscular  legs, 

He  is  thinly  clothed,  he  leans  forward  as  he  runs, 

With  lightly  closed  fists  and  arms  partially  raised. 

—  Walt  Whitman 


To  a  Boy 

Play  —  and  play  hard,  for  youth  's  a  song; 
Play  — and  play  true,  for  age  is  long! 
9 


Casey  at  the  Bat 

It  looked  extremely  rocky  for  the  Mudville  nine  that 

day: 
The  score  stood  four  to  six  with  just  an  inning  left  to 

Play; 
And  so,  when  Cooney  died  at  first,  and  Burrows  did 

the  same, 
A.  pallor  wreathed  the  features  of  the  patrons  of  the 

game. 


A  straggling  few  got  up  to  go,  leaving  there  the  rest 
With  that  hope  that  springs  eternal  within  the  human 

breast; 
For  they  thought  if  only  Casey  could  get  one  whack, 

at  that 
They  'd  put  up  even  money,  with  Casey  at  the  bat. 

But  Flynn  preceded  Casey,  and  so  likewise  did  Blake, 
But  the  former  was  a  pudding,  and  the  latter  was  a 

fake; 

So  on  that  stricken  multitude  a  death-like  silence  sat, 
For  there  seemed  but  little  chance  of  Casey's  getting 

to  the  bat. 


But  Flynn  let  drive  a  single  to  the  wonderment  of  all, 
And  the  much-despised  Blaikie  tore  the  cover  off  the 

ball; 
And  when  the  dust  had  lifted,  and  they  saw  what  had 

occurred 
There  was  Blaikie  safe  on  second  and  Flynn  a-hugging 

third! 

10 


Then  from  the  gladdened  multitude  went  up  a  joyous 

yell, 
It  bounded  from  the  mountain-top,  and  rattled  in  the 

dell, 

It  struck  upon  the  hillside,  and  rebounded  on  the  flat; 
For  Casey,  mighty  Casey,  was  advancing  to  the  bat. 

There  was  ease  in  Casey's  manner  as  he  stepped  into 

his  place. 
There  was  pride  in  Casey's  bearing,  and  a  smile  on 

Casey's  face; 
And  when,  responding  to  the  cheers,  he  lightly  doffed 

his  hat, 
No  stranger  in  the  crowd  could  doubt  't  was  Casey  at 

the  bat. 


Ten  thousand  eyes  were  on  him  as  he  rubbed  his  hands 

with  dirt, 
Five  thousand  tongues  applauded  when  he  wiped  them 

on  his  shirt; 
Then,  while  the  writhing  pitcher  ground  the  ball  into 

his  hip, 
Defiance  glanced  in  Casey's  eye,  a  sneer  curled  Casey's 

lip. 


AX: 


And   now  the    leather-covered   sphere   came    hurtling 

through  the  air, 
And  Casey  stood  a-watching  it  in  haughty  grandeur 

there; 

Close  by  the  sturdy  batsman  the  ball  unheeded  sped; 
"That  ain't  my  style,"  said  Casey.    "Strike  one,"  the 

umpire  said. 

11 


From  the  benches,  black  with  people,  there  went  up  a 

muffled  roar, 
Like  the  beating  of  the  storm-waves  on  a  stern  and 

distant  shore; 
"Kill  him!     Kill  the  umpire!"  shouted  some  one  in 

the  stand, 
And  it  's  likely  they  'd  have  killed  him  had  not  Casey 

raised  his  hand. 

With  a  smile  of  Christian  charity  great  Casey's  visage 

shone; 

He  stilled  the  rising  tumult;  he  bade  the  game  go  on; 
He  signaled  to  the  pitcher,  and  once  more  the  spheroid 

flew, 
But  Casey  still  ignored  it;  and  the  umpire  said,  "Strike 

two." 

"Fraud!"    cried   the    maddened   thousands,    and   the 

echo  answered,  "Fraud!" 
But  the  scornful  look  from  Casey,  and  the  audience 

was  awed; 
They  saw  his  face  grow  stern  and  cold,  they  saw  his 

muscles  strain, 
And  they  knew  that  Casey  would  n't  let  that  ball  go 

by  again. 


The   sneer   is   gone    from   Casey's   lip,   his   teeth   are 

clenched  with  hate; 

He  pounds  with  cruel  violence  his  bat  upon  the  plate; 
And  now  the  pitcher  holds  the  ball,  and  now  he  lets  it 

go, 
And  now  the  air  is  shattered  by  the  force  of  Casey's 

blow. 

12 


Oh,  somewhere  in  this  favored  land  the  sun  is  shining 
bright, 

The  band  is  playing  somewhere,  and  somewhere  hearts 
are  light, 

And  somewhere  men  are  laughing,  and  somewhere  chil- 
dren shout; 

But  there  is  no  joy  in  Mudville  —  mighty  Casey  has 
struck  out. 

—  Ernest  Lawrence  Thayer. 

In  the  Procession 

Spring  comes:    and   baseball,  robust  flower,   in  every 
meadow  's  seen; 

Summer:  and  tennis  bourgeons  white  upon  the  shining 
green; 

Autumn:    and   football  shakes  at  us  chrysanthemum- 
like  hair; 

Winter:  and  even  ice  is  left  a-bloom  with  skaters  fair: 

Four  times  a  year  the  earth  is  glad  with  miscellaneous 
joy; 

As  often  sighs  the  man  who  was  —  and  now  is  not  —  a 
boy. 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 


A  Chinese  Angler 
There  was  an  old  philosopher, 

In  China  is  his  fame  still  rife, 
Who  spent  his  days  in  angling,  sir, 

Nor  used  a  bait  in  all  his  life: 
As  he  explained,  't  was  not  his  wish 
That  he  should  catch  a  fish. 

—  Christopher  Bannister. 
13 


Time,  the  Victor 

The  strength  and  splendor  of  the  world  are  ours. 
See,  how  our  eyes  glow  in  the  morning  sun, 
How  down  our  arms  the  corded  muscles  run, 
How  youth  sits  on  our  brow  like  wreathed  flowers! 

Health,  beauty,  grace,  High  Heaven  on  us  showers; 
And  deeds  —  such  deeds !  —  full  f eatly  have  we  done ; 
Life's  laurel  lies  in  hand,  —  already  won!     .     .     . 
Poor  souls,  what  strifes  near  by  surpass  your  powers! 

No  Runner  hath  outstripped  Oblivion; 

No  Thrower  hurled  his  mortal  strain  afar; 

No  Swimmer  gained  salvation  from  Time's  wave; 
No  Wrestler  his  dim  Future  seized  and  thrown; 

No  Vaulter  brushed  his  locks  'gainst  any  star; 

No  Leaper  leapt  that  little  gulf,  the  Grave! 

—  Wallace  Rice. 


Win  if  you  can,  by  every  means  that  's  fair 

Play  for  the  sport's  sake,  and  always  take  good  care 

To  be  the  best  of  losers,  no  matter  when  or  where. 

My  Lady  of  the  Links 

Like  Dian,  her  trim  ankles  seen, 

And  small  feet  treading  lightly, 
She  drives  the  ball  from  green  to  green, 

And  grasps  her  lofter  tightly. 
Like  Venus,  her  sweet  lips  and  eyes 

Above  her  wind-tossed  plaidie, 
She  plays  —  my  fortune  for  her  prize, 

Dan  Cupid  for  her  caddie. 
14 


Beth-El 

Loinwise  upgirded,  with  a  leathern  clout, 
All  stripped  and  weaponless,  behold  him  go 
Over  the  barrier,  vaulting,  fit  for  his  foe, 
A  Man,  unartificed,  wide-stanced,  and  stout. 

He  breathes  him,  for  the  Champion  's  coming  out: 
Shrill  sounds  the  signal:  springs  he  like  a  bow 
Scorning  the  arrow     See,  his  hold  is  low! 
Like  Death  his  sinews  grip:    His  is  the  bout! 

Thus,  every  man  must  do  his  fall  with  Fate  — 
Naked,  unarmed,  unchampioned,  alone, 
The  odds  unweighed,  the  issue  unforetold; 

Only  for  him  doth  Victory's  paean  wait, 
Who,  in  that  day,  shall  marshal  as  his  own 
All  ValhalTs  virtues  waxed  a  thousandfold. 

—  Louis  Albert  Lamb. 


I  'd  rather  be  a  cyclist 

Than  any  other  beast, 
For  though  he  slays  he  never  stays 

Upon  the  slain  to  feast. 

It  's  pleasant  to  remember, 

While  lying  on  the  stones, 
How,  though  you  're  dead,  you  need  n't  dread 

That  he  will  pick  your  bones. 

He  comes!    You  fall!    He  's  gone!     That  's  all! 

He  does  n't  mind  the  least. 
Oh,  I  'd  rather  be  a  cyclist 

Than  any  other  beast. 

—  John  Joy  Bell. 

15 


The  Pleasure  Boat 


Come,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go! 

They  're  seated  side  by  side; 
Wave  chases  wave  in  pleasant  flow; 

The  bay  is  fair  and  wide. 


The  ripples  lightly  tap  the  boat, 
Loose!     Give  her  to  the  wind! 

She  shoots  ahead!     They  're  all  afloat; 
The  strand  is  far  behind.     .    .     . 

Fair  ladies,  fairer  than  the  spray 

The  prow  is  dashing  wide, 
Soft  breezes  take  you  on  your  way, 

Soft  flow  the  blessed  tide!     .     .    . 

The  boat  goes  tilting  on  the  waves; 

The  waves  go  tilting  by; 
There  dips  the  duck,  —  her  back  she  laves; 

O'erhead  the  sea-gulls  fly. 

Now,  like  the  gulls  that  dart  for  prey, 

The  little  vessel  stoops; 
Now,  rising,  shoots  along  her  way, 

Like  them,  in  easy  swoops. 

The  sunlight  falling  on  her  sheet, 

It  glitters  like  the  drift, 
Sparkling,  in  scorn  of  summer's  heat, 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 


The  winds  are  fresh;  she  's  driving  fast 
Upon  the  bending  tide; 
16 


The  cringling  sail  and  crinkling  mast 
Go  with  her,  side  by  side. 

Why  dies  the  breeze  away  so  soon? 

Why  hangs  the  pennant  down? 
The  sea  is  glass;  the  sun  at  noon, — 

Nay,  lady,  do  not  frown; 

For,  see,  the  winge'd  fisher's  plume 

Is  painted  on  the  sea; 
Below,  a  cheek  of  lovely  bloom 

Whose  eyes  look  up  at  thee. 

She  smiles;  thou  need'st  must  smile  on  her, 

And  see,  beside  her  face 
A  rich  white  cloud  that  doth  not  stir: 

What  beauty  and  what  grace! 

And  pictured  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

And  peaked  rock  and  hill, 
Change  the  smooth  sea  to  fairyland: 

How  lovely  and  how  still! 

The  parting  sun  sends  out  a  glow 

Across  the  placid  bay, 
Touching  with  glory  all  the  show  — 

A  breeze!    Up  helm!     Away! 

Careening  to  the  wind,  they  reach, 

With  laugh  and  call  the  shore. 
They  've  left  their  footprints  on  the  beach, 

But  them  I  hear  no  more. 

—  Eichard  Henry  Dana. 

17 


x 
I 


The  Hundred  Yard  Dash 

Give  me  a  race  that  is  run  in  a  breath, 

Straight  from  the  start  to  the  tape; 
Distance  hath  charms,  but  a  "ding-dong"  means  death, 

Death  without  flowers  and  crape. 

"On  your  mark!"    "Set!"    For  a  moment  we  strain, 

Held  by  a  leash  all  unseen; 
"P'ff!"     We  are  off,  from  the  pistol  we  gain 

Yards,  if  the  starter  's  not  keen. 

Off  like  lean  greyhounds,  the  cinders  scarce  stir 

Under  the  touch  of  our  feet; 
Flashes  of  sunlight,  the  crowd's  muffled  purr, 

The  rush  of  the  wind,  warm  and  sweet. 

One  last  fierce  effort,  red  worsted  breaks, 

Struggle  and  strain  are  all  past; 
Only  ten  ticks  of  the  watch,  but  it  makes 

First,  second,  third,  and  the  last. 

—  William  Lindsey. 


The  High  Jump 

He  slowly  paced  his  distance  off,  and  turned, 
Took  poise,  and  darted  forward  at  full  speed; 

Before  the  bar  the  heavy  earth  he  spurned, 
Himself  an  arrow.    They  who  saw  his  deed, 

Tensed  muscles,  poised  and  ran  and  leapt,  and  burned 
With  close-drawn  breath,  helping  him  to  succeed: 

Now  he  is  over;  they  are  over,  too; 

Foeman  and  friend  were  flying  when  he  flew. 

—  John  Jarvis  Holden. 
IS 


My  Lady  on  the  Links 

When  my  lady  plays  golf  there  's  commotion  galore, 
There  's  a  caddie  beside  her,  another  before; 
And  she  handles  her  clubs  with  a  confident  ease, 
For  my  lady  is  playing  the  game,  if  you  please, 
And  gives  strictest  attention  to  bunkers  and  tees, 
When  my  lady  plays  golf. 

When  my  lady  plays  golf  you  must  always  avoid 
Any  subject  but  golf,  or  she  '11  be  much  annoyed; 
For  if  she  should  let  her  mind  wander,  I  fear 
She  would  "go  off  her  game,"  and  you  'd  presently 

hear 

Far  stronger  expressions  than  simply  "Oh,  dear!" 
When  my  lady  plays  golf. 

When  my  lady  plays  golf  then  of  stance  and  of  grip 
She  's  as  careful  as  if  in  the  championship; 
And  when  she  leaves  off  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
And  her  caddies  are  paid,  and  her  clubs  put  away 
(Which  never  occurs  till  it  's  too  dark  to  play), 
Then  my  lady  talks  golf. 

A  Love  Game 
As  in  tennis,  so  in  love, 

She  's  the  victor  easily; 
Always  stands  aloof,  above, 

Smiling  at  you  breezily. 
Were  but  just  one  love  game  mine  — 

Hearts,  and  hers  the  best  of  them!  — 
I  'd  be  willing,  I  opine, 

She  should  win  the  rest  of  them! 

—  Sennett  Stephens. 
19 


Curling  Song 

A'  nicht  it  was  freezin',  a'  nicht  I  was  sneezin', 

"Tak'    care,"    quo'   the   wifie,    "gndeman,    o'    yer 

cough;" 
"A  fig  for  the  sneezin'!    Hurrah!  for  the  freezin'! 

This  day  we  're  to  play  the  bonspiel  on  the  loch; 
Then  get  up,  my  auld  leddy,  the  breakfast  get  ready, 

For  the  sun  on  the  snawdrift  's  beginnin'  to  blink; 
Gi'e  me  bannocks  or  brochan,  I  'm  off  for  the  lochan, 

To  mak'  the  stanes  glee  to  the  tee  or  the  rink." 


Then  hurrah  for  the  curlin',  frae  Girvan  to  Stirlin' ! 

Hurrah  for  the  lads  of  the  besom  and  stane! 
"Ready,  noo!"    "Soop  it  up!"    "Clap  a  guard!" 

"Steady,  noo!" 
Oh!  curlin'  aboon  every  game  stands  alane! 

The  ice  it  is  splendid,  it  canna  be  mended; 
Like  glass  ye  may  glower  on  't,  and  shave  aff  yer 

beard; 
And  see  how  they  gaither,   comin'    ower  the   brown 

heather; 

The  servant  and  maister,  the  tenant  and  laird. 
There  's  brave  Jamie  Fair  lie,  he  's  there  late  and  early, 

Better  curlers  than  him  or  Tarn  Conn  canna  be; 
Wi'  the  lads  frae  Kilwinnin'  they  '11  send  the  stanes 

spinnin', 
Wi'  a  whirr  and  a  curr  till  they  sib  round  the  tee. 

It*  's  an  unco-like  story,  that  baith  Whig  and  Tory 
Maun  ay  collieshangie  like  dogs  ower  a  bane, 

And  a'  denominations  are  wantin'  in  patience, 
For  nae  kirk  will  thole  to  let  ithers  alane; 
20 


But  in  fine  frosty  weather,  let  a'  meet  thegither, 
Wi'  a  broom  in  their  haun',  and  a  stane  by  the  tee, 

And  then,  by  my  certies!  ye  '11  see  how  a'  pairties 
Like  brithers  will  love,  and  like  brithers  agree. 

—  Norman  Macleod. 

The  Yacht 

Bocks  smoothly  in  the  river  mouth 
The  rising  tide;  blows  soft  the  south; 

A  ripple  lips  the  land: 
Reflected  in  the  mirror  bright, 
The  mast  and  canvas  gleam  as  white 

As  pebbles  on  the  sand. 

The  sailors  trim  the  little  yacht,  and  say, — 
Hoist  sail:  the  sky  has  not  a  cloud  to-day. 

Ah,  beauteous  little  ship!  so  bold 
To  sail  upon  the  ocean  old, 

And  take  it  for  a  friend! 
Your  helm  and  chart  will  idle  prove, 
If  rude  winds  wake  the  sea  they  love, 

And  Heaven  no  succor  send. 
The  sailors  trim  the  little  yacht,  and  say,  — 
Hoist  sail:  the  sky  has  not  a  cloud  to-day. 

—  Thomas  Ashe. 

Golf's  Cardinal  Virtues 
An  eye  that  never  leaves  the  ball, 
In  swing,  address,  in  flight  and  fall; 
A  nerve  of  iron,  calm  and  cool, 
Unruffled  as  a  woodland  pool; 
And  in  the  heart,  and  on  the  lip, 
The  spirit  of  true  sportsmanship. 

—  Francis  Bowler  Keene. 
21 


V 


Boating  Song 

We  sing  the  song  of  the  boat  and  oar, 

Yeo-ho!  lads  ho!   Yeo-ho!   Yeo-ho! 
As  we  launch  our  shells  from  off  the  shore, 

Yeo-ho!  lads  ho!    Yeo-ho! 

With  measured  dip  and  steady  clip  we  glide  along, 
Our  pulses  leap  to  the  rhythmic  sweep  that  marks  our 

song, 

And  all  together  we  catch  and  feather  and  lift  her 
strong, 

Yeo-ho!  lads  ho!   Yeo-ho! 
The  flashing  blade  and  gliding  shell  for  me, 

Yeo-ho!  we  go,  so  swift  and  free; 
The  flashing  blade  and  gliding  shell  for  me, 

The  flashing  blade  and  shell  for  me! 

At  Alma  Mater's  shrine  we  vow, 

Yeo-ho!  lads  ho!    Yeo-ho!    Yeo-ho! 
That  the  laurel  wreath  shall  crown  her  brow, 

Yeo-ho!  lads  ho!   Yeo-ho! 

Or  now  we  leap  with  bending  sweep  the  river's  tide; 
For  a  noble  class  and  a  bonnie  lass,  and  victory  our 

guide; 

Who  never  shall  wait  to  see  us  late  past  the  line  tc 
glide, 

Yeo-ho!  lads  ho!   Yeo-ho! 
The  flashing  blade  and  gliding  shell  for  me, 

Yeo-ho!  we  go,  so  swift  and  free; 
The  flashing  blade  and  gliding  shell  for  me, 

The  flashing  blade  and  shell  for  me! 

Play  for  the  sport's  sake;  win  if  you  may; 
Lose  like  a  sportsman;  but,  always,  —  play! 


22 


A  Ballade  of  the  Game 

Tier  upon  tier,  through  the  stands  are  strewn 

Faces  fervid  and  faces  fair, 
Banners  aloft  in  the  breezes  blown, 

Waving  ribbons,  and  wayward  hair. 

Flushes  the  west  with  a  crimson  flare, 
Glimmers  the  east  like  a  summer  sky; 

Thunder  of  throngs  in  the  frosty  air: 
Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory! 

Joy  of  battle  and  brawn  of  stone,  — 

Pride  of  pain  in  the  deed  they  dare, — 
Yard  by  yard  they  are  struggling  on, 

Backward  the  Crimson  they  bend  and  bear; 

Met  with  the  strain  of  a  strong  despair, 
Into  the  strife  again,  do  or  die; 

Till  the  shouts  to  tatters  the  stillness  tear: 
Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory  I 

Two  long  years  o'er  our  flag  have  flown, — 

Years  of  darkness  and  dismal  care; 
Now  the  time  of  our  time  is  known, 

One  short  day  shall  our  fate  declare. 

Each  in  our  sorrow  has  borne  a  share, 
Each  has  a  share  in  the  glad,  loud  cry 

Shaking  the  skies  with  a  trumpet-blare: 
Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory! 


Queen  of  Violets,  reigning  there, 
Spirit  of  strength  in  a  violet  eye, 

Lend  us  the  power  of  thy  whispered  prayer: 
"Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory!" 
23 


Bow-Meeting  Song 

The  tent  is  pitched,  the  target  reared,  the  ground  is 

measured  out, 
For  the  weak  arm  sixty  paces,  and  one  hundred  for 

the  stout! 
Come,  gather  ye  together,  then,  the  youthful  and  the 

fair, 
And  poet's  lay,  to  future  day,  the  victor  shall  declare. 

Let  busy  fingers  lay  aside  the  needle  and  the  thread, 
To  prick  the  golden  canvas  with  a  pointed  arrow-head; 
Ye  sportsman  quit  the  stubble,  quit,  ye  fishermen,  the 

stream, 
Fame  and  glory  stand  before  you,  brilliant  eyes  around 

you  beam. 

All  honor  to  the  long-bow  which  many  a  battle  won, 
Ere  powder  blazed  and  bullet  flew  from  arquebus  or 

gun; 

All  honor  to  the  long-bow,  which  merry  men  of  yore, 
With  hound  and  horn,  at  early  morn,  in  greenwood  for- 
est bore. 

Oh,  famous  is  the  archer's  sport,  't  was  honored  long 

ago, 
The  God  of  Love,  the  God  of  Wit,  bore  both  of  them  a 

bow; 
Love  laughs  to-day  in  beauty's  eye  and  blushes  on  her 

cheek, 
And  wit  is  heard  in  every  word  that  merry  archers 

speak. 

The  archer's  heart,  though,  like  his  bow,  a  tough  and 
sturdy  thing, 

24 


Is  pliant  still  and  yielding,  when  affection  pulls  the 
string; 

All  his  words  and  all  his  actions  are  like  arrows,  point- 
ed well 

To  hit  that  golden  center,  where  true  love  and  friend- 
ship dwell. 

They  tell  us  in  that  outline  which  the  lips  of  beauty 

show, 

How  Cupid  found  a  model  for  his  heart-subduing  bow; 
The  arrows  in  his  quiver  are  the  glances  from  her  eye, 
A  feather  from  love's  wing  it  is  that  makes  the  arrows 

fly! 

—  R.  E.  Egerton-Warburton. 

In  Elizabeth's  Day 

Who  would  not  give  the  treasure 

Of  very  many  lives 
If  some  kind  fate  would  pleasure 
To  let  him  be  where  Ben  is 
A-playing  Kit  at  tennis, 
Or  playing  Will  at  fives? 

The  racquet  ne'er  so  deftly 

Is  turned,  whoever  drives, 
The  ball  flies  ne'er  so  swiftly 

As  thought  and  tongue  where  Ben  is 
A-playing  Kit  at  tennis, 
Or  playing  Will  at  fives. 

—  Wallace  Rice. 


Cheer  when  you  win  —  but  cheer  the  loser,  too: 
He  needs  encouragement  much  more  than  you. 
25 


Cycling  Song 
In  the  airy  whirling  wheel  is  the  springing  strength  of 

steel, 

And  the  sinew  grows  to  steel  day  by  day, 
Till  you  feel  your  pulses  leap  at  the  easy  swing  and 

sweep, 
As  the  hedges  nicker  past  upon  the  way. 

Then  it  's  out  to  the  kiss  of  the  morning  breeze, 

And  the  rose  of  the  morning  sky, 
And  the  long  brown  road  where  the  tired  spirit's 

load 
Slips  off  as  the  leagues  go  by. 

Black  and  silver,  swift  and  strong,  with  a  pleasant  un- 
dersong 

From  the  steady  rippling  murmur  of  the  chain,  — 
Half  a  thing  of  life  and  will,  you  may  feel  it  start  and 

thrill 

With  a  quick,  elastic  answer  to  the  strain. 
As  you  ride  to  the  kiss  of  the  morning  breeze, 

And  the  rose  of  the  morning  sky, 
And  the  long  brown  road  where  the  tired  spirit's 

load 
Slips  off  as  the  leagues  go  by. 

Miles  a  hundred  you  may  run  from  the  rising  of  the  sun 

To  the  gleam  of  the  first  white  star; 
You  may  ride  through  twenty  towns,  meet  the  sun  upon 

the  downs, 
Or  the  wind  on  the  mountain  scaur. 

Then  it  's  out  to  the  kiss  of  the  morning  breeze, 

And  the  rose  of  the  morning  sky, 
And  the  long  brown  road  where  the  tired  spirit's 

load 

Slips  off  as  the  leagues  go  by. 
26 


Down   the   pleasant    countryside,    through    the   wood- 
land's summer  pride, 
You  have  come  in  your  forenoon  spin  — 
And  you  never  would  have  guessed  how  delicious  is  the 

rest 
In  the  shade  by  the  wayside  inn, 

When   you    've   sought  the   kiss   of   the   morning 

breeze, 

And  the  rose  of  the  morning  sky, 
And  the  long  brown  road  where  the  tired  spirit's 

load 
Slips  off  as  the  leagues  go  by. 

Oh,  there  's  many  a  one  who  teaches  that  the  shining 

river  reaches 

Are  the  place  to  spend  a  long  June  day. 
But  give  me  the  whirling  wheel  and  a  boat  of  air  of 

steel 
To  float  upon  the  Queen's  highway! 

Oh,  give  me  the  kiss  of  the  morning  breeze, 

And  the  rose  of  the  morning  sky, 
And  the  long  brown  road  where  the  tired  spirit's 

load 
Slips  off  as  the  leagues  go  by. 

—  Thomas  William  Eolleston. 

The  Running  Broad  Jump 

High,  high,  he  climbs,  his  dashing  run 

Taking  him  on  and  upward;  all 

His  limbs  and  body  in  a  ball; 
And,  when  we  thought  him  fairly  done, 
With  quick  unbending,  forward  feet 

And  thrusting  arms,  near  flat  he  lies 

Above  the  ground  —  and  on  he  flies 
To  stand  erect,  adroit  and  fleet. 
27 


The  Archery  Meeting 

The  archery  meeting  is  fixed  for  the  third, 
The  fuss  that  it  causes  is  truly  absurd; 
I  've  bought  summer  bonnets  for  Rosa  and  Bess, 
And  now  I  must  buy  each  an  archery  dress! 
Without  a  green  suit  they  would  blush  to  be  seen, 
And  poor  little  Eosa  looks  horrid  in  green! 


Poor  fat  little  Eosa!  she  's  shooting  all  day! 
She  sends  forth  an  arrow  expertly  they  say; 
But  't  is  terrible  when  with  exertion  she  warms, 
And  seems  to  me  getting  such  muscular  arms; 
And  if  she  should  hit,  't  were  as  well  if  she  missed, 
Prize  bracelets  could  never  be  clasped  on  her  wrist! 

Dear  Bess  with  her  elegant  figure  and  face, 

Looks  quite  a  Diana,  the  queen  of  the  place, 

But  as  for  the  shooting  —  she  never  takes  aim, 

She  talks  so,  and  laughs  so!  the  beaux  are  to  blame; 

She  doats  on  flirtation  —  but  oh!  by-the-by, 

'T  was  awkward  her  shooting  out  Mrs.  Flint's  eye! 

They  've  made  my  poor  husband  an  archer  elect; 
He  dresses  the  part  with  prodigious  effect; 
A  paii  of  nankeens,  with  a  belt  round  his  waist, 
And  a  quiver,  of  course,  in  which  arrows  are  placed; 
And  a  bow  in  his  hand  —  Oh!  he  looks,  of  all  things, 
Like  a  corpulent  Cupid  bereft  of  his  wings! 

They  dance  on  the  lawn,  and  we  mothers,  alas! 
Must  sit  on  camp-stools  with  our  feet  in  the  grass; 
My  Eosa  and  Betty  no  partners  attract! 
The  archery  men  are  all  cross  beaux,  in  fact! 
28 


Among  the  young  ladies  some  hits  there  may  be, 
But  still  at  my  elbows  two  misses  I  see. 

—  Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 

"Mark" 

The  heavy  mists  have  crept  away, 

Heavily  swims  the  sun, 
And  dim  in  mystic  cloudlands  gray 

The  stars  fade  one  by  one; 
Out  of  the  dusk  enveloping 

Come  marsh  and  sky  and  tree, 
Where  erst  has  rested  night's  dark  ring 

Over  the  Kankakee. 

"Mark  right!"     Afar  and  faint  outlined 

A  flock  of  mallards  fly, 
We  crouch  within  the  reedy  blind 

Instantly  at  the  cry. 
"Mark  left!"     We  peer  through  wild-rice  blades, 

And  distant  shadows  see, 
A  wedge-shaped  phalanx  from  the  shades 

Of  far-off  Kankakee. 


"Mark  overhead!"     A  canvas-back! 

"Mark,  mark!"     A  bunch  of  teal! 
And  swiftly  on  each  flying  track 

Follows  the  shotgun's  peal; 
Thus  rings  that  call,  till  twilight's  tide 

Rolls  in  like  some  gray  sea, 
And  whippoorwills  complain  beside 

The  lonely  Kankakee. 

—  Ernest  McGaffey. 

29 


The  Lawn-Tennis  Player 

Fearful  to  lose  our  little  place, 

We  dare  not  venture  far 
To  welcome  others  of  our  race, 

Men  of  the  self-same  star. 


Eager  to  win  beyond  our  ranks, 

We  trample  others  down, 
And  pressing  o'er  them  murmur  thanks, 

Our  eyes  upon  the  crown. 


And  yet  we  bear  no  enmity; 

"It  's  life,"  we  sadly  say; 
"We  would  be  genial,  open,  free 

To  all  men  as  the  day. 

"This  armor  that  doth  make  us  safe, 

This  visor  to  the  eye, 
We  feel  their  weight,  we  feel  them  chafe, 

We  fain  would  put  them  by." 

And  when  we  come  to  our  green  field, 
Far  from  the  strife  of  town, 

Forthwith  in  gentleness  we  yield 
And  lay  that  armor  down. 


The  touch  of  flannels  to  our  skin, 

Of  grass  beneath  our  feet, 
Of  sun  at  throat  may  help  us  win 
Safe  past  the  judgment  seat. 

—  Arthur  Stanwood  Pier. 
30 


The  Hammer  Throw 

We  are  the  children  of  the  strong  god,  Thor; 

We  hurl  his  hammer  through  the  hollow  sky; 

No  task  is  this  for  feeble  hands  to  try: 
This  is  the  sport  than  men  and  gods  adore. 

A  giant  race  are  we,  who  each  in  turn 
Step  in  the  magic  circle's  narrow  ring, 
Around  our  heads  the  old  god's  hammer  swing, 

And  send  it  whirling  where  the  sunbeams  burn. 

Our  fingers  twine  the  handle  tightly  round, 
Firm  as  a  mountain  oak  we  plant  our  feet, 
With  one  long  breath,  filling  each  cell  complete, 

We  lift  and  swing  the  dead  weight  from  the  ground. 


Around  our  heads  we  swing  with  quickening  speed, 
The  hot  blood  pressing  in  each  swollen  vein, 
Each  muscle  corded  with  its  mighty  strain, 

The  handle  bending  like  a  river-reed. 


A  step,  a  turn,  and  staggering,  we  hurl 

The  heavy  hammer  whistling  through  the  air; 
We  watch  it  in  the  sunbeams  fly  and  flare; 

We  see  it  settle,  with  a  thud  and  whirl. 


All  can  not  win;  our  giant  game  is  o'er; 
'T  is  better  to  be  last  in  such  a  test, 
Than  in  a  little  sport  to  rank  the  best; 

We  are  the  children  of  the  strong  god,  Thor. 

—  William  Lindsey. 


Hockey 

When  you  hack  a  fellow's  shin, 

Say  "Sorry," 
Or  his  ankle  or  his  chin, 

Say  "Sorry": 

If  their  right  wing  is  too  fast, 
And  you  see  him  flying  past, 
Should  you  trip  him,  and  he  's  grassed, 

Say  "Sorry." 


When  the  ball  is  thrown  from  "touch," 

Mark  your  man; 
"Mark  the  ball,"  you  say?    Not  much, 

Mark  your  man; 
Whirl  your  cudgel  in  the  air, 
Anyhow  and  anywhere, 
On  any  spot  that  's  bare 

Mark  your  man. 

When  their  forwards  get  away, 

Shout  "Sticks"; 
But  if  your  side  scores,  then  they 

Shout  "Sticks": 
Sometimes,  of  course,  you  call 
"Offside,"  some  times  "Hand  ball," 
But  better  far  than  all 

Shout  "Sticks." 

Knock  corners  off  the  foe, 

That  's  hockey, 
And  pay  back  what  you  owe, 

That  's  hockey. 

Bound  the  goal  the  wounded  sit, 
32 


And  the  language  they  emit 
Is  —  Well,  suitable  and  fit 
For  Hockey! 

A  Song  of  Handball 
Smooth  and  square  and  dry  the  wall; 
White,  elastic,  round  the  ball; 
Two  on  that  side,  two  on  this; 
Two  hands  each  to  hit  or  miss, 
Two  hands  each  to  hit  or  miss, 
What  more  need  we  to  possess, 
Two  good  hours  of  happiness. 

Send  the  "service"  slow  and  high; 
Hold  your  tongue,  and  mind  your  eye; 
Eun  and  twist,  and  duck  and  dance; 
Volley,  when  you  see  your  chance  — 
Volley,  when  you  see  your  chance. 
Hit  them  hard,  and  hit  them  low, 
Thus  your  score  will  upwards  go!     .    .    . 

Oft  in  life  you  '11  meet  with  knocks 
'Gainst  a  harder  pepper-box; 
Fingers  scraped  and  fingers  bruised; 
Balls  and  player  roughly  used, 
Till  cut  down,  or  slow  or  fast, 
Into  dead  man's  hole  at  last! 

So  let  Fives  its  lessons  teach: 
Hit  all  balls  with  your  reach; 
If  you  fail  for  want  of  pluck, 
Don't  abuse  your  rival's  luck! 
Every  one  can  win  who  tries, 
For  the  struggle  is  the  prize. 

—  A.  C.  Ainger. 

33 


The  Swimmer's  Joy 

Who  would  linger  idle, 

Dallying  would  lie, 
When  wind  and  wave,  a  bridal 

Celebrating,  fly? 
Let  him  plunge  among  them, 

Who  hath  wooed  enough, 
Flirted  with  them,  sung  them! 

In  the  salt  sea-trough 
He  may  win  them,  onward 

On  a  buoyant  crest, 
Far  to  seaward,  sunward, 

Oceanborne  to  rest! 
Wild  wind  will  sing  over  him, 
And  the  free  foam  cover  him, 
Swimming  seaward,  sunward, 

On  a  blithe  sea-breast! 
On  a  blithe  sea-bosom 

Swims  another,  too, 
Swims  a  live  sea-blossom, 

A  grey-winged  sea-mew. 
Grape-green  all  the  waves  are, 

By  whose  hurrying  line 
Half  of  ships  and  caves  are 

Buried  under  brine; 
Supple,  shifting  ranges 

Lucent  at  the  crest 
With  pearly  surface  changes 

Never  laid  to  rest; 
Now  a  dipping  gunwale 

Momently  he  sees, 
Now  a  fuming  funnel, 

Or  red  flag  in  the  breeze. 


Arms  flung  open  wide, 

Lip  the  laughing  sea; 
For  playfellow,  for  bride, 

Claim  her  impetuously! 
Triumphantly  exalt  with  all  the  free, 
Buoyant,  bounding  splendor  of  the  sea! 
And  if  while  on  the  billow 

Wearily  he  lay, 
His  awful  wild  playfellow 

Filled  his  mouth  with  spray, 
Reft  him  of  his  breath, 

To  some  far  realms  away 

He  would  float  with  Death; 
Wild  wind  would  sing  over  him, 
And  the  free  foam  cover  him. 
Waft  him  sleeping  onward,  . 
Floating  seaward,  sunward, 

All  alone  with  Death; 
In  a  realm  of  wondrous  dreams 
And  shadow-haunted  gleams. 

—  Eoden  Noel. 


The  Yachtsman 

He  wore  a  suit  of  blue,  and  a  badge  upon  his  cap, 
And  he  liked  to  keep  a  pair  of  glasses  handy; 

He  was  lounging  on  the  pier,  when  I  met  the  dainty 
chap, 

(He  wore  a  suit  of  blue,  and  a  badge  upon  his  cap) . 

When  I  saw  him  on  the  boat,  and  the  sails  began  to  flap, 
He  was  asking  where  the  skipper  kept  the  brandy. 

He  wore  the  suit  of  blue,  and  the  badge  upon  his  cap, 
But  he  thought  it  best  to  keep  a  —  basin  handy. 

— Coulson  Kernahan. 

35 


To  a  Golf  Ball  Before  a  Match 

Little  sphere  from  out  the  tissue  peeping, 
White  as  snows  that  on  tall  summits  lie, 

Fickle  chance  consigned  you  to  my  keeping, 
We  to-day  are  playmates,  you  and  I. 

Soon  your  glossy  surface  geometric 
May  be  seamed  by  some  unsightly  scar; 

For  your  beauty,  sleek,  smooth,  and  symmetric, 
Pitiless,  my  polished  clubs  must  mar. 

Can  I  guide  you  past  the  perils  lurking 
In  the  hazards  and  the  bunker's  yawn, 

Stroke  by  stroke  my  winning  way  well  working 
Onward  to  the  home  hole's  level  lawn? 

In  your  dark  elastic  substance  hiding, 
Brought  from  mystic  Asia's  far  Malay, 

Is  there  not  some  potent  charm  abiding 
That  will  lead  me  on  to  perfect  play? 

Faithful  index,  every  stroke  recording, 

Cynosure  of  every  eye  you  '11  be. 
Lead  the  way,  my  practice  well  rewarding, 

Fortune  wing  you  on  to  victory! 

—  Francis  Bowler  Keene. 


Compensation 

For  when  the  breeze  in  merry  Maytime  blows 
And,  merrier  maid  beside,  our  hero  goes 

Forth  to  his  tennis,  is  not  payment  given 
For  football  dangers  and  November  snows? 
36 


Lament  of  the  Unathletic  Maiden 

I  'm  born  a  century  late, 
And  I  'm  utterly  out  of  my  sphere; 

My  ideas  are  all  out  of  date, 
And  so  are  my  talents,  I  fear. 

I  used  to  play  tennis,  and  row, 
And  take  a  mild  walk  with  a  friend; 

But  now  all  my  pleasures  must  go, 
All  my  simple  delights  have  an  end. 

'T  is  only  the  crews  that  may  row, 

And  I, —  I  "belong  to  no  crew; 
My  methods  in  tennis  are  slow, 

And  not  scientific,  nor  new. 

But  walking, —  it  surely  remains? 

No,  there  's  the  pedestrian  band, 
That  wanders  all  over  the  plains, 

And  climbs  every  hill  in  the  land. 

And  what  's  a  poor  maiden  to  do 

Who  's  not  athletic  at  all, 
Who  's  no  time  to  row  on  a  crew, 

Or  learn  scientific  baseball? 

—  Isabella  Campbell. 

Where  there  's  keenness 
For  sport,  there's  little  likelihood 

Of  a  man's  displaying  meanness. 

—  Eobert  Browning. 


37 


To  an  Athlete  Dying  Young 

The  time  you  won  your  town  the  race 
We  chaired  you  through  the  market-place; 
Man  and  boy  stood  cheering  by, 
And  home  we  brought  you  shoulder-high. 

To-day,  the  road  all  runners  come, 
Shoulder-high  we  bring  you  home, 
And  set  you  at  your  threshold  down, 
Townsman  of  a  stiller  town. 


Smart  lad,  to  slip  betimes  away 
From  fields  where  glory  does  not  stay, 
And  early  though  the  laurel  grows 
It  withers  quicker  than  the  rose. 

Eyes  the  shady  night  has  shut 
Cannot  see  the  record  cut, 
And  silence  sounds  no  worse  than  cheers 
After  earth  has  stopped  the  ears: 

Now  you  will  not  swell  the  rout 

Of  lads  that  wore  their  honors  out, 

Runners  whom  renown  outran 

And  the  name  died  before  the  man. 

So  set,  before  its  echoes  fade, 
The  fleet  foot  on  the  sill  of  shade, 
And  hold  to  the  low  lintel  up 
The  still-defended  challenge  cup. 

And  round  that  early-laureled  head 
Will  flock  to  gaze  the  strengthless  dead, 
38 


And  find  unwithered  on  its  curls 
The  garland  briefer  than  a  girl's. 

—  Alfred  Edward  Housman. 

Zermatt:  To  the  Matterhorn 

Thirty-two  years  since,  up  against  the  sun, 
Seven  shapes,  thin  atomies  to  lower  sight, 
Laboringly  leaped  and  gained  thy  gabled  height, 
And  four  lives  paid  for  what  the  seven  had  won. 

They  were  the  first  by  whom  the  deed  was  done, 
And  when  I  look  at  thee,  my  mind  takes  flight 
To  that  day's  tragic  feat  of  manly  might, 
As  though,  till  then,  of  history  thou  hadst  none. 

Yet  ages  ere  men  topped  thee,  late  and  soon 

Thou    watch 'dst    each   night   the   planets    lift    and 

lower; 

Thou  gleam 'dst  to  Joshua's  pausing  sun  and  moon, 
And  brav'dst  the  tokening  sky  when  Caesar's  power 
Approached  its  bloody  end:  yea,  saw'st  that  Noon 
When  darkness  filled  the  earth  till  the  ninth  hour. 

—  Thomas  Hardy. 


Keep  Your  Temper 

Whatever  you  play, 

Keep  your  temper  in  hand. 
There  is  nothing  you  say, 
Whatever  you  play, 
That  will  get  you  your  way 

Like  a  speech  that  is  bland; 
Whatever  you  play, 

Keep  your  temper  in  hand. 

—  Oliver  Marble. 
39 


A  "Rise" 

Under  the  shadows  of  a  cliff 

Crowned  with  a  growth  of  stately  pine 
An  angler  moors  his  rocking  skiff 

And  o'er  the  ripple  casts  his  line, 
And  where  the  darkling  current  crawls, 
Like  thistledown  the  gay  lure  falls. 

Then  from  the  depths  a  silver  gleam 
Quick  flashes,  like  a  jewel  bright, 

Up  through  the  waters  of  the  stream, 
An  instant  visible  to  sight  — 

As  lightning  cleaves  the  somber  sky 

The  black  bass  rises  to  the  fly. 

—  Ernest  McGaffey. 


The  College  Athlete 

Statue-like  standeth  he  forth,  quick,  elate, 
Sculptured  from  living  flesh,  and  closely  planned 
As  any  marble  from  the  sculptor's  hand 
In  poise  and  posture,  stature,  form,  and  weight; 

Thoughtful  months,  too,  are  in  his  making:  Pate, 
Win  he  or  lose,  here  is  not  blind;  command 
Is  laid  that  sinew  and  brain  understand: 
One  fine  tool,  calculated,  delicate. 

Yet  art  sufficeth  not.    To  gain  his  end 
With  glory  Soul  must  be;  the  selflessness 
Which  bringeth  sparks  from  Paradise  to  earth, 

Muscle  and  mind  to  kindle  and  transcend; 
Some  high  ideal  he  shall  not  confess, 
Such  as  hath  given  martyrs  mortal  birth. 

—  Wallace  Eice. 
40 


A  Ballade  of  Lawn  Tennis 

Some  gain  a  universal  fame 

By  dint  of  pugilistic  might; 
To  some  all  sports  seem  very  tame 

Except  a  fierce  and  fistic  fight; 

Some  love  the  tourney,  too,  in  spite 
Of  ancient  armor,  helm,  and  crest, 

Where  knights  are  smitten  and  do  smite  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

Some  love  to  take  a  gun  and  aim 

At  pretty  birdlings  in  their  flight; 
Some  also  think  it  is  no  shame 

To  make  poor  trout  and  pickerel  bite; 

Some  chase  the  deer  from  morn  till  night  — 
I  like  not  such  a  bloody  quest, 

My  sport  is  harmless,  pleasant,  light  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

Some  for  the  ancient,  royal  game 

Of  golf.    Arrayed  in  colors  bright 
They  '11  play  until  they  're  sore  and  lame 

A  frenzy  without  justice,  quite. 

Baseball  and  football  may  have  right, 
Polo  and  cricket  and  the  rest 

Of  sports  too  many  to  recite  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

Queen  of  the  Court,  my  skill  is  light 
In  rhyming,  but,  perhaps,  you  've  guessed 

Why  this  ballade  I  thus  indite  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

—  Franklin  P.  Adams. 
41 


The  Cry  of  the  High  Hurdlers 

With  bodies  bowed,  with  breath  drawn  in, 

We  're  waiting  for  the  sound; 
Our  hot  hearts  shake  the  start  to  make 

And  leave  the  clinging  ground. 

We  're  coming,  coming,  coming,  like  the  old 

Olympics  fleet, 
For  we  've  sworn  to  smash  the  record  in  the 

race; 
And  we   're  leaping,  leaping,  leaping,  like 

the  hunters  in  a  chase, 

And  we  spurn  the  heavy  ground  with  flashing 
feet. 

The  pistol  cracks;  we  burst  our  bounds, 

We  're  working  arms  and  feet; 
Our  heads  go  back  as  on  the  track 

We  stretch  fresh  racers  fleet. 

The  hurdles  lift  their  menace  high 

Like  walls  to  break  our  flight; 
We  mount  the  air,  a  hidden  stair, 

And  shoot  their  easy  height. 


And  now  we  feel  the  final  pull  — 

A  triple  struggle  hot; 
We  catch  the  cries,  we  feel  the  eyes, 

We  "hit  her  up"  a  jot. 

We  spurt  as  one,  we  rise  abreast, 
Like  horses  o'er  a  hedge; 


We  hear  the  cry:  ' 'A  tie,  a  tie! " 
We  '11  drink  to  each  a  pledge. 

We  're  coming,  coming,  coming,  like  the  old 

Olympics  fleet, 
For  we  've  sworn  to  smash  the  record  in  the 

race; 
And  we   're  leaping,  leaping,  leaping,  like 

the  hunters  in  the  chase, 

And  we  spurn  the  heavy  ground  with  flashing 
feet. 

—  Horace  Spencer  Fiske. 

Football 

With  heaving  chest  and  wildly  tossing  hair, 
The  ball  hugged  tightly,  down  the  field  he  goes; 
The  skillful  "Mockers  check  opposing  foes  — 
Another  touchdown  —  cheering  shakes  the   air. 

For  college  honor  strive  the  athletes  there, 
And  by  that  spirit  urged,  care  not  for  blows; 
Each  man  with  eagerness  his  prowess  shows 
That  he  in  hard-won  victory  may  share. 

Chivalric  days  mayhap  have  passed  away, 
And  sound  of  clashing  steel  in  knightly  strife; 
More  peaceful  times  are  now  our  happiei  lot. 


Yet  may  such  contests  never  lose  their  sway, 
Where  brain  and  muscle  equally  are  rife, 
And  manly  virtues  to  perfection  brought! 

—  Arthur  Amsden  Macurda. 
43 


In  a  Single  Gig 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
By  winding  shore  and  willowy  screen, 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
Across  tree-shadows  gray  or  green, 
By  shelving  beach  of  crinkling  sand, 
And  deeps  where  drowsing  cattle  stand; 
By  meadow's  rim,  by  mill-wheel's  brim, 
By  white  vine-suited  cottage  trim, 
And  where  the  red  vine-clusters  peep, 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
And  the  strong  white  eddies  leap 
Where  the  broad  blades  run  in  the  burning  sun 
With  their  sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 

By  mouldering  pier-heads  that  still  keep 

Their  watch  and  ward  on  silent  streams, 
By  grand-dams  in  wide  doors  asleep 

And  dreaming  who  shall  say  what  dreams; 
And  further  in  cool  breaths  of  pine 
That  taste  like  some  old-vintaged  wine, 
Where  scarce  one  ray  of  the  saffron  day 
Through  the  arch  of  the  incense  shrine  makes  way, 
Where  the  shadowy  walls  an  echo  make 

To  the  sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  - — 
And  the  dancing  globes  in  my  wake 
Of  tree-top  line  and  gold-leaf  shine 

The  tinted  image  take. 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
Now  where  great  domes  of  cloud-land  drift, 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
Now   where   long  shafts   of  sunlight   sift, 
44 


Through  blue  and  white  .and  golden  brown, 
Where  sloping  fields  of  the  wheat  come  down, 
Where  through  burnt  fume  of  summer  bloom 
The  slender  village  steeples  loom 
Or  broken  lie  in  the  bow- wave's  curl, 
Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
And  the  face  of  a  country  girl 
Round-eyed  and  brown  from  the  bridge  looks  down 
To  watch  the  foam-wreaths  whirl. 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
The  oar  rings  true  like  a  crystal  bell; 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
The  rushes  lie  in  the  tiny  swell; 
And  the  treble  tinkling  of  the  song 
Up  where  the  keen  prow  shears  along 
Keeps  tune  and  time  with  the  plashing  chime, 
Keeps  note  for  note  with  the  sterner  rhyme 
Of  the  grumbling  gear  of  the  sliding  seat. 

Sweep  —  sweep  —  sweep  — 
And  beneath  the  hard-pressed  feet 
The  ripples  rise,  the  slim  bow  flies 
To  the  song  of  the  sliding  seat. 

—  Charles  Edward  BusselL 

In  vivid  May  and  rustling  June 
When  breeze's  breath  is  like  a  tune, 
Oh,  where  can  life  be  free? 
Where  swings  the  bat, 
Where  shoots  the  ball, 
Where  rings  the  umpire's  sudden  call, 
And  curve  and  catch  must  settle  all  — 
Upon    the   diamond. 

—  Horace  Spencer  Fiske. 
45 


The  Joys  of  Fowling 

Of  all  the  joys  that  sporting  yields, 
Give  me  to  beat  the  stubble  fields 

Quite  early  in  September: 
A  brace  of  pointers,  staunch  and  true, 
A  gun  that  kills  whate'er  I  view, 
I  care  not  whether  old  or  new, 

Are  things  one  must  remember. 

Old  Ponto  makes  a  famous  point, 
As  marble  stiff,  in  every  j  oint. 

I  cautiously  proceed, 
When  quickly  up  the  covey  fly  — 
Bang,   bang — both   barrels   then   I   try- 
And  lo!  a  brace  before  me  die, 

The  shooter's  richest  meed. 

If  hares  I  want  for  friends  in  town, 
I  can  tell  where  to  knock  them  down, 

Within  the  furze-bush  cover. 
A  leash  I  bag,  then  homeward  go, 
My  spirits  all  in  joyous  flow, 
And  more  delight,  I  'm  sure,  I  know, 

Than  doth  a  beauty's  lover. 


In  wintry  woods,  when  leaves  are  dead, 
And  hedges  beam  with  berries  red, 

The  pheasant  is  my  spoil. 
Fenced  with  high  gaiters  out  I  go, 
And  beat  through  tangled  bushes  low; 
Each  joy  of  mine  my  spaniels  know, 

Though  wandering  many  a  mile. 
46 


At  night  returned,  my  bag  well  filled, 
Perchance  four  brace  of  pheasants  killed, 

I  sit  me  down  in  peace, 
And  envy  not  ambition's  cares, 
Nor  e'en  the  crown  a  monarch  wears, 
Such  joys  as  mine  he  seldom  shares  — 

Oh,  may  the  joy  ne'er  cease. 


Basketball  at  Bryn  Mawr 

An  amphitheater  built  when  Nature  wrought  her  will, 
Curve  upon   curve  —  a  glinting,   grass-grown  citadel; 
A  tawny  hollow  worn  by  many  a  well-fought  rout, 
And  there  a  vivid,  changing  maze  wreathes  in  and  out. 

The  lithe  young  figures,  with  their  striving,  joyous 

strength, 

Entwined,  rock  to  and  fro  in  all  their  supple  length; 
Bright  in  October  scarlet,  gay  in  forest  green, 
They  run  like  scurrying  leaves,  wind-blown  through 

Autumn's  scene. 

Here,  first,  a  struggling  knot  will  waver,  swerve,  and 

form;  , 

There,  then,  it  breaks,  like  scattering  clouds  before  a 

storm; 
Wrenched  bravely  out  with  strength  of  straight  young 

arms,  the  ball 
An  instant  hovers  buoyant,  high  above  them  all. 

—  Ethel  le  Roy  de  Koven. 
Do  your  best;  don't  trust  to  luck; 
Keep  yourself  out  of  the  ruck; 
Lose  with  smiles,  and  win  with  pluck. 

47 


The  Boy  in  Yellow 

When  first  I  strove  to  win  the  prize, 

I  felt  my  youthful  spirits  rise; 

Hope's  crimson  flush  illumed  my  face, 

And  all  my  soul  was  in  the  race. 

When  weighed  and  mounted,  't  was  my  pride, 

Before  the  starting-post  to  ride; 

My  rival  's  dressed  in  red  and  green, 

But  I  in  simple  yellow  seen. 

In  stands  around  fair  ladies  swarm, 
And  mark  with  smiles  my  slender  form; 
Their  lovely  looks  new  ardor  raise, 
For  beauty's  smile  is  merit's  praise! 
The  flag  is  dropped  —  the  sign  to  start  — 
Away  more  fleet  than  winds  we  dart, 
And  though  the  odds  against  me  lay, 
The  boy  in  yellow  wins  the  day! 

Though  now  no  more  we  seek  the  race, 
I  trust  the  jockey  keeps  his  place; 
For  still  to  win  the  prize,  I  feel 
An  equal  wish,  an  equal  zeal: 
And  still  can  "beauty's  smile  impart 
Delightful  tremors  through  this  heart: 
Indeed  I  feel  it  flutter  now  — 
Yes,  while  I  look,  and  while  I  bow! 


My  tender  years  must  vouch  my  truth  — 
For  candor  ever  dwells  with  youth; 
Then  the  sage  might  well  believe, 
A  face  —  like  mine  —  could  ne'er  deceive. 

48 


If  here  you  e'er  a  match  would  make, 
My  life  upon  my  luck  I  '11  stake; 
And   'gainst  all  odds,  I  think  you  '11  say, 
The  boy  in  yellow  wins  the  day. 

The  Golfer's  Big,  Big  D 

I  drove  a  golf  ball  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  word  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  free 
That  it  can  follow  a  big,  big  D? 

A  short  time  afterward  on  the  green 
I  found  that  golf  ball  round  and  clean; 
And  the  word  from  beginning  to  end 
I  heard  again  from  the  lips  of  a  friend. 

—  Greville  E.  Matheson. 


Of  Skating 

She  's  just  at  my  back,  and 

She  sees  me,  I  'm  certain. 
I  '11  show  I  'm  a  crack  hand; 
She  's  just  at  my  back,  and  — 
But  something  goes  crack,  and 

I  'd  best  draw  the  curtain; 
She  's  just  at  my  back,  and 

She  sees  me,  I  'm  certain. 

—  Coulson  Kernahan. 
49 


The  sunlight  pours  a  golden  flood  across  the  grassy 

field, 
As  up  against  a  cloudless  sky  the  grand  stand  throws 

its  shield; 
The  umpire  tosses  out  the  ball,  the  batter  takes  his 

stand; 
The  catcher  snugly  fits  his  mask;  the  pitcher  twirls  his 

hand, 
And  the  new  white  sphere  goes  twisting  like  a  bullet 

from  a  gun, 
And  the  crowds  upon  the  bleachers  settle  down  to  see 

the  fun. 


Three  times  the  batter  hits  the  air  in  lieu  of  the  whirl- 
ing ball, 

And  takes  his  seat  with  a  heavy  look  at  the  umpire's 
final  call; 

The  second  pounds  a  liner  straight  that  beats  him  to 
the  base; 

The  third  sends  up  a  flier  that  seems  made  for  climb- 
ing space  — 

Yet  the  center  softly  takes  it  in  without  the  least 
distress, 

And  the  hopeful  "ins"  have  a  whitewashed  stone  on 
the  road  to  hard  success. 

Then  the  "outs"  use  all  their  brain  power  to  find  the 
little  curve, 

And  they  learn  that  this  is  a  little  thing  that  can't  be 
found  by  nerve; 

For  the  sullen  ball  and  the  angry  bat  don't  seem  in- 
clined to  meet, 

50 


And  never  an  eager  batter  has  a  chance  to  use  his  feet. 
So  the  sides  keep  swinging  back  and  forth,  with  now 

and  then  a  hit, 
But  without  a  single  fought- for  score  to  cither's  benefit 

Then  the  ninth  —  it  opens  hotly  with  a  triple-bagger 
crack, 

And  the  runner  makes  the  bases  like  a  racer  round  the 
track; 

Till  the  catcher's  fumble  brings  him  in  amid  the  roar- 
ing cheers, 

And  the  hopes  of  half  the  people  change  to  soul-de- 
pressing fears; 

For  the  aliens  have  a  tally  safe  and  the  home  team  has 
an  O, 

And  only  half  an  innings  left  to  beat  the  foreign  foe! 

Now  two  are  out;  the  third  leads  off  with  a  dainty 
little  bunt, 

And  the  hardest  hitter  plants  his  feet  to  meet  the! 
battle's  brunt. 

Lo!  through  the  sky  and  over  the  fence  the  ball  goes 
climbing  fast, 

While  the  pair  of  runners  touch  the  plate  amid  the 
blare  and  blast; 

And  the  people,  standing,  lift  his  praise  on  the  wave 
of  a  mighty  cheer, 

As  the  jubilant  team  on  their  shoulders  bear  the  win- 
ner of  the  year! 

—  Horace  Spencer  Fiske. 

If  the  joy  of  the  game  be  your  first  and  best  aim 
You  can  stand  being  beaten;  for,  after  all,  fame 
Is  a  torch  that  you  never  can  long  keep  aflame. 
51 


With  Good  Steel  Ringing 

When  the  wan  white  moon  in  the  skies  feels  chilly, 

And  wraps  her  round  with  a  rifting  cloud; 
When  the  poplar  stands  like  a  monster  lily, 

That  swings  and  sways  in  a  silvern  shroud; 
When  you  don't  get  up  with  the  lark  at  dawning, 

But  snooze  and  slumber  till  twelve  instead, 
And  vow  by  the  fire  in  the  evening  yawning, 

'T  is  really  too  chilly  to  go  to  bed;  — 
Sing  Tan-tarra-ti, 
A-skating  we  hie, 
Where  good  ice  bends  'neath  a  frosty  sky. 

There  are  tiny  waists  you  may  put  your  arm  round 

(Don't  attempt  it  on  land  —  that  's  all!), 
And  white  warm  hands  you  may  clasp  till  charm-bound, 

(Just  in  case  they  should  chance  to  fall) ; 
There  are  tresses  trailing  and  bright  eyes  glowing, 

Lips  that  laugh  when  you  lend  a  hand, 
And  dainty  ankles  they  can't  help  showing 

(Quite  by  accident  —  understand!), 
Sing  Tan-tarra-ti, 
A-skating  we  hie, 

The  jolliest  sport  in  the  world,  say  I! 


As  a  yacht  that  bends  with  the  wind's  wild  wooing, 
And  dips  white  wings  in  the  waves  that  swirl, 

We  bound  and  bend  with  a  glad  hallooing, 
We  curve  and  circle  and  wheel  and  whirl: 

As  a  ship  that  sweeps  with  her  wet  sail  swinging 
When  storms  are  spent  past  the  harbor  bar, 

We  glide  erect  then,  with  good  steel  ringing, 
52 


We  skim  like  swallow  or  shoot  like  star. 

Sing  Tan-tarra-ti, 

A-skating  we  hie, 
Like  curlew  winging  we  wheel  or  fly. 

You  may  chant  of  cricket  and  tell  of  tennis, 
Or  yarn  of  yachts,  till  you  both  get  warm; 
You  may  talk  of  travel,  and  Borne  and  Venice, 

And  brag  of  boating  or  croquet's  charm; 
But  summer  has  gone,  and,  with  all  your  prating, 

The  grapes  are  sour,  for  they  hang  too  high: 
So  hurrah  for  winter,  hurrah  for  skating, 
The  jolliest  sport  in  the  world,  say  I! 
Sing  Tan-tarra-ti, 
A-skating  we  hie, 
With  the  good  steel  ringing  like  wind  we  fly. 

—  Coulson  Kernahan. 


The  Pole-Vaulter 

Balancing  'twixt  earth  and  sky 
Unto  you  an  instant  's  given 

Shared  with  birds  that  soar  and  fly 
In  and  from  the  vaulting  heaven. 

With  a  grace  deliberate 
That  firm  wand  in  hand  retain  you: 

As  a  ladder  starward  set, 
Yet  a  bond  on  earth  to  chain  you. 

Then:  an  agile  twist  and  weave 
Onward,  upward,  and  you  hover 

Hawk-like,  as  the  rod  you  leave 
Instantly,  and  down  —  you  're  over! 
53 


A  Song  of  Life  and  Golf 


The  thing  they  ca'  the  stymy  o'  't, 

I  find  it  ilka  where! 
Ye  'maist  lie  deid  —  an  unco  shot  — 

Anither's  ba'  is  there! 
Ye  canna  win  into  the  hole 

However  gleg  ye  be, 
And  ay,  where'er  my  ba'  may  row, 

Some  limmer  stymies  me! 

Somebody  stymying  me, 

Somebody  stymying  me; 
The  grass  may  grow,  the  ba'  may  row; 

Some  limmer  stymies  me. 

I  lo'ed  a  lass,  a  bonnie  lass, 

Her  lips  an'  locks  were  reid; 
Intil  her  heart  I  could  na  pass: 

Anither  man  lay  deid! 
He  cam'  atween  me  an'  her  heart, 

I  turned  wi'  tearfu'  e'e, 
I  could  na  loft  him,  I  maun  part, 

The  limmer  stymied  me! 

I  socht  a  kirk,  a  bonny  kirk, 

Wi'  teind,  an'  glebe,  an'  a', 
A  bonny  yaird  to  feed  a  stirk, 

An'  links  to  ca'  the  ba'! 
Anither  lad  he  cam'  an'  fleeched, 

A  convartit  U.  P., 
An'  a'  in  vain  ma  best  I  preached, 

That  limmer  stymied  me! 


It  's  ay  the  same  in  life  an'  gowf, 
I  'm  stymied  late  an'  ear', 
54 


This  warld  is  but  a  weary  howf, 

I  'd  fain  be  itherwhere; 
But  whan  auld  Deith  wad  hole  ma  corp, 

As  sure  as  deith  ye  '11  see 
Some  coof  has  played  the  moudiewarp, 

Bin  in,  an'  stymied  me, 

Somebody  stymying  me, 

Somebody  stymying  me, 
The  grass  may  grow,  the  ba'  may  row; 

Some  limmer  stymies  me. 

—  Andrew  Lang. 

The  Bather 

I  saw  him  go  down  to  the  water  to  bathe; 
He  stood  naked  upon  the  bank. 

His  breast  was  like  a  white  cloud  in  the  heaven,  that 

catches  the  sun; 
It  swelled  with  the  sharp  joy  of  the  air. 

His   legs   rose  with  the   spring   and  curve   of  young 

birches; 
The  hollow  of  his  back  caught  the  blue  shadows: 

With  his  head  thrown  up  to  the  lips  of  the  wind; 
And  the  curls  of  his  forehead  astir  with  the  wind. 

I  would  that  I  were  a  man,  they  are  so  beautiful; 

Their  bodies  are  like  the  bows  of  the  Indians; 

They  have  the  spring  and  grace  of  bows  of  hickory. 

The    beauty    of    a    man    is    so    lithe    and    alive    and 

triumphant, 

Swift    as   the   flight   of   a   swallow   and   sure   as   the 
pounce  of  an  eagle. 

—  Bichard  Hovey. 
55 


Song  of  the  Swimmers 

O  fair  as  love 

In  the  "blue  above 
The  silvery  sun-clouds  bleach, 

In  the  blue  below 

The  white-caps'   snow 
Turns  gold  along  the  beach; 

Bright  ripples  run 

Against  the  sun 
Before  the  soothing  breeze, 

And  dear  the  tone 

O'   the  summer  moan 
By  the  smiling  summer  seas  ! 

If  sweet  the  draught 

From  well-springs  quaffed 
To  dry  and  thirsty  throats, 

Thrice  cool  and  sweet 

Are  the  waves  that  greet 
The  swimmer  as  he  floats; 

Though  soft  the  mesh 

Against  the  flesh 
Of  silken  sash  and  sleeve, 

Yet  softer  far 

The  garments  are 
That  velvet  waters  weave: 


For  weary  heads 

On  sleepless  beds 
A  couch  of  ease  they  lie — 

No  anodyne 

Can  match  this  wine 
That  sparkles  to  the  sky; 
56 


At  trick  and  trade, 

Gold  lost  or  made, 
Who  lingers  in  his  sweat, 

When  sea  and  star 

Call  from  afar 
To  live  —  and  to  forget? 


The  great  gales  blow, 

And  high  and  low 
The  sea  their  lilies  wreathe, 

And  rollers  lift 

Their  sheer  spindrift 
Where  waters  strive  and  seethe; 

The  lunging  surge 

The  swimmers  urge, 
Compellers  of  the  brine, 

And  stroke  on  stroke 

Win  through  the  smoke 
O'  the  breakers'  battle  line. 

The  city  ways 

Make  weary  days, 
And  weary  brains  they  make, 

And  city  roads 

Hold  heavy  loads, 
And  heavy  hearts  they  break; 

But  light  as  air 

Our  bodies  there 
At  Ocean's  laughing  lip, 

When  in  the  comb 

Of  bubbling  foam 
The  merry  swimmers  dip. 

—  Wallace  Rice. 


57 


A  Golfer's  Elegy 

Beneath  these  rugged  elms,  that  maple's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  last,  eternal  bunker  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

Oft  to  the  harvest  did  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  — 

Ah,  but  they  had  no  mashies  then  to  wield, 
They  never  learned  to  use  the  Vardon  stroke. 

The  poor  old  souls,  they  only  lived  to  toil, 
To  sow  and  reap  and  die,  at  last,  obscure; 

They  never  with  their  niblicks  tore  the  soil  — 
How  sad  the  golfless  annals  of  the  poor! 

The  pomp  of  power  may  once  have  thrilled  the  souls 
Of  unenlightened  men  —  to-day  it  sinks 

Beneath  the  saving  grace  of  eighteen  holes! 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  links. 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  that  would  have  quickened  to  the  game; 
Hands  that  the  lovely  baffy  might  have  swayed, 

To  Colonel  Bogey's  everlasting  shame. 

Full  many  a  hole  was  passed  by  them  unseen, 
•    Because  no  fluttering  flag  was  hoisted  there; 
Full  many  a  smooth  and  sacred  putting-green 
They  tore  up  with  the  plow,  and  did  n't  care. 

Some  village  Taylor  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
Could  whang  the  flail  or  swing  the  heavy  maul; 

58 


Some  mute,  inglorious  Travers  here  may  rest, 
Some  Harriman  who  never  lost  a  ball. 

Far  from  the  eager  foursome's  noble  strife 
They  leveled  bunkers  and  they  piled  the  hay, 

Content  to  go  uncaddied  all  through  life, 
And  never  were  two  up  with  one  to  play! 

No  further  seek  their  hardships  to  disclose, 
Nor  stand  in  wonder  at  their  lack  of  worth; 

Here  in  these  bunkers  let  their  dust  repose  — 
They  did  n't  know  St.  Andrews  was  on  earth. 

—  Samuel  Ellsworth  Riser. 


Cricket  Triolets 

I  ran  for  a  catch, 

With  the  sun  in  my  eyes,  Sir; 
Being  sure  at  a  "snatch," 
I  ran  for  a  catch;     .    .     . 
Now  I  wear  a  black  patch, 

And  a  nose  such  a  size,  Sir! 
I  ran  for  a  catch, 

With  the  sun  in  my  eyes,  Sir. 

I  stepped  in  to  drive, 

And  the  umpire  said  "Out,  Sir!" 
Being  last  to  arrive, 
I  stepped  in  to  drive, 
For  we  wanted  but  five, 

And  had  made  them,  no  doubt,  Sir; 
But  I  stepped  in  to  drive, 

And  the  umpire  said  "Out,  Sir!" 

—  Coulson  Kernahan. 
59 


The  Angler 

Oh!  the  gallant  fisher's  life, 

It  is  the  best  of  any: 
'T  is  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife, 
And  't  is  beloved  by  many: 

Other  joys 

Are  but  toys; 

Only  this 

Lawful  is! 

For  our  skill 

Breeds  no  ill 
But  content  and  pleasure.    .    .    . 

When  we  please  to  walk  abroad 

For  our  recreation; 
In  the  fields  is  our  abode, 
Full  of  delectation; 
Where,  in  a  brook, 
With  a  hook,— 
Or  a  lake, — 
Fish  we  take; 
There  we  sit, 
For  a  bit, 
Till  we  fish  entangle. 

We  have  gentles  in  a  horn, 

We  have  paste  and  worms  too; 
We  can  watch  both  night  and  morn, 
Suffer  rain  and  storms  too ; 
None  do  here 
Use  to  swear; 
Oaths  do  fray 
Fish  away; 
We  sit  still 
60 


And  watch  our  quill: 
Fishers  must  not  wrangle. 

If  the  sun's  excessive  heat 

Makes  our  bodies  swelter, 
To  an  osier  hedge  we  get 
For  a  friendly  shelter; 
Where  —  in  a  dyke, 
Perch  or  pike, 
Roach  or  dace, 
We  do  chase, 
Bleak  or  gudgeon 
Without  grudging; 
We  are  still  contented. 

Or  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 

Under  a  green  willow, 
That  defends  us  from  a  shower, 
Making  earth  our  pillow; 
Where  we  may 
Think  and  pray, 
Before  death 
Stops  our  breath: 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys, 
And  to  be  lamented. 

—  John  ChalkhiU. 

To  a  Baseball 
You  're  going  into  play?    An  instant  more 

And  yours  the  eyes  of  thousands.     There  's  for  you 
Huge  plaudits  welcoming  the  needed  score, 
Deep  disapprovals  at  misplays  they  view, 
And,  best  of  all,  the  eager  silence  there 
When,  swift  from  bat  or  hand,  you  hang  in  air. 
61 


S 


Golfing  by  the  Fire 

Ere  yet  the  evening  lights  are  lit, 

When  you  beside  the  fender  sit, 

And  all  the  dusking  house  is  still, 

Then  give  to  Memory  her  will, 

And  with  her  buoyant  backward  go 
To  those  dead  days,  a  radiant  span, 
Shaped  for  the  merriment  of  man, 

Before  the  links  were  sown  with  snow! 

How  could  a  golfer's  thews  but  thrive 

From  day-long  brassie-stroke  and  drive? 

Two  hundred  yards  —  an  added  score! 

Ah,  how  the  smitten  ball  did  soar! 

And  then,  and  then,  was  ever  seen 
Of  skill  a  subtler  showing  made, 
Since  golfer  at  St.  Andrew's  played?  — 

"Dead"  by  the  hole  upon  the  green! 

Thus  o'er  and  o'er  your  prowess  some 

Portentous  hazard  will  o'er  come; 

From  desperate,  deep-sunken  "lies" 

As  though  by  magic  you  will  rise; 

And  when  at  last  you  count  the  score, 
Although  you  foozle  at  the  start, 
How  you  will  thrill  with  pride  at  heart 

To  always  be  one  up  —  or  more! 

—  Clinton  Scollard. 


62 


Acknowledgment 

The  thanks  of  the  compilers  are  due  to  Miss  Ethel  le 
Boy  de  Koven  for  courteous  permission  to  use  "Basket 
Ball  at  Bryn  Mawr";  to  Mr.  Franklin  P.  Adams  for 
"A  Ballade  of  Lawn  Tennis";  to  Mr.  Horace  Spencer 
Fiske  for  "The  Cry  of  the  High  Hurdlers"  and  "Upon 
the  Diamond";  to  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Company 
for  the  late  Richard  Hovey's  "The  Bather";  to  Mr. 
Francis  Bowler  Keene  for  "Golf's  Cardinal  Virtues" 
and  "To  a  Gold  Ball  Before  the  Match";  to  Mr. 
Samuel  Ellsworth  Kiser  for  "A  Golfer's  Elegy";  to 
Mr.  Louis  Albert  Lamb  for  "Beth-El";  to  Mr.  William 
Lindsey  for  "The  Hundred  Yard  Dash"  and  "The 
Hammer  Throw";  to  Mr.  Ernest  McGaffey  for 
"Mark"  and  "A  'Rise'  ";  to  Mr.  Arthur  Stan  wood 
Pier  for  "The  Lawn-Tennis  Player";  to  Mr.  Charles 
Edward  Russell  for  "In  a  Single  Gig";  to  Mr.  Clinton 
Scollard  for  "Golfing  by  the  Fire";  and  to  Mr.  John 
Jarvis  Holden  for  many  favors. 


The  Little  Book  Series 

Edited  and  Compiled 

by 

Wallace  and  Frances  Rice 


The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 
The  Little 


Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 
Book  of 


Love 

Kisses 

Friendship 

Brides 

Sports 

Out-of-Doors 

Cheer 

Lullabies 

Laughter 

Limericks 

School-Days 

Bohemia 


Made  in  three  styles  as  follows : 

Half-vellum,  gold  and  colored  paper  sides,  boxed,  per  vol.,  35  cents 
Booklovers'  edition,  cartridge  paper  sides     .  60  cents 

Flexible  Morocco  leather       ....  "    "        $1.00 


The  Little  Books  are  sold  everywhere  or  will  be  sent  postpaid 
on  receipt  of  price,  by  the 

Publishers        The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co.  Chicago 

Complete  catalogue  sent,  postpaid,  on  request 


.LITTLE  BGDK 
SERIES 


A     000120822     2 


' 


^     -.-  __.™,_  , 

KK 


